


Red Hands

by TheWaywardLady



Series: These Hands [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Stiles, BDSM, Bloodplay, Dark, Dark Stiles, Dom/sub, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Season/Series 02, Psychopaths In Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaywardLady/pseuds/TheWaywardLady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles loves the way his hands look covered in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Hands

**Author's Note:**

> My first piece of fanfiction. I don't know what I'm doing. It's unbeta'd.  
> Dark!Stiles will always be my favorite and one day, he just decided to write himself into one of my word documents.  
> The result of that is below. Also, part of it was written on my phone so be gentle. My comma usage probably sucks and there's an excessive amount of it.  
> Ending changed as of 06/03/2016 (nothing much just made more fluffy and the original ending was never right to me.)

He knows that Scott would never understand.

Scott is his best friend, and Stiles should be able to tell him anything. In the past, he told him almost everything. The only things he never told his best friend were the things that you think late at night. The kind of things that creep into your mind and you know are _wrong_.

At first, that’s all it was. A stray thought, here or there.

Ever since that night in the woods, it’s become so much more.

Stiles would have never guessed that he would feel so unashamed about the blood on his hands. Literally.

He stares down at his hands, wiggling his fingers. The blood is thick and looks black in the cover of the night. Stiles stares past his hands to the corpse lying on the ground at his feet. He licks his lips, absentmindedly, and wonders how the blood would taste.

He dismisses the thought, sadly, as he crouches down to turn the body over onto its back. He stares into its expressionless face, and trails a hand down its cheek, in an almost gentle manner.

Then, Stiles grabs the corpse by its arms and begins dragging it through the woods.

The half-moon is out, and shining bright, dimmed only by the tree branches overhead. A cricket nearby is chirping and leaves crunch as Stiles walks. His eyes are cold and hard, his lips set into a small smirk. His grey t-shirt is stretched out and needs a wash, while his blue jeans hug his legs. His classic red sweatshirt is hanging off one shoulder, and he doesn’t bother to fix it.

As he drags the body behind him, the smirk on his face widens. The irony of the situation is not lost on him.

Stiles reminisces about the night that Peter joked about him in terms of “Little Red Riding Hood.” It was a good night, and ever since then, Stiles has made a conscious choice to always being wearing an article of red clothing at all times.

What a twist in the tale it is that Little Red is the hunter and not the prey. Instead, the wolf is dead by his hand.

Stiles abruptly stops, and let’s go of the body. He walks around and picks up some twigs and leaves, before heading back to the body. Carefully, with consideration, he begins to cover the body in the materials nature has provided for him. He’s not aiming to keep the body hidden forever. Just long enough for it to start to decompose, and for all traces of him to disappear from the crime scene.

Not that there are many traces to begin with. Stiles is calculating and he plans his kills in advance.

He stands up and stretches, raising his hands above his head and yawning. Then he wipes his hands against each other, making some of the bloodied dirt fall to the forest floor. Without a moment’s pause, he turns about face and begins walking in the opposite direction. Stiles trudges through the forest, feeling utterly content. 

In a few minutes, he reaches his jeep, old and worn, sitting on the side of the road. He walks around to the back of it, opening up the trunk and pulling out a roll of paper towels and a first aid kit. First, he wipes his hands off with a paper towel, before he opens the kit. Slowly, methodically, and with a practiced hand, he begins to wipe clean the scratch on his left arm. It's not deep enough to acquire stitches, so he simply wraps it in a bandage before throwing everything back inside the jeep. Then, he climbs into the driver’s side, starts his beloved car, and pulls out onto the road. 

Stiles drives well over the speed limit. He has no time or patience for the rules of the road. Just because he’s not so hyper and doesn’t spazz out as much anymore, doesn’t mean his ADHD is gone. The killing just seems to help with it.

Stiles quickly reaches his destination. 

He pulls up in front of the huge house and turns off the engine. For a moment, he just sits there, before he's exiting his jeep and walking along the well-worn trail up to the Hale house. He walks up the wooden steps and opens the fairly new red door without knocking. 

Inside, all the lights are off. It would be pitch black if not for the flat screen television mounted on the wall that Peter's eyes are focused on. 

"Little red," Peter drawls in way of greeting, slouched on the beige sofa facing the wall. Then, Stiles sees him sniff the air and then Peter's turning around to face him. "My, my. Someone's been a bad boy."

Stiles smirks, his eyes glinting dangerously, and replies, "You wouldn't have it any other way."

Peter barks out a laugh before turning back to his reality TV show. It's something about some people living in New Jersey or something, and some sort of shore? Stiles doesn't get it. 

"There's some leftover spaghetti in the fridge," Peter informs Stiles as he heads for the kitchen. Stiles gives Peter a thumbs up even though he can't see it. 

In the kitchen, he flips the light on and heads for the fridge. He contemplates the spaghetti but he's not particularly hungry. He's already sated his hunger for the night. 

Instead, he grabs the galleon of milk, the Hershey's chocolate sauce, and a clean glass nearby. Moving to the nearby granite countertop, Stiles begins making his favorite drink. 

When he's done, he puts all the materials away and turns off the light. He heads for the stairs yelling out a "Night Pete" as he goes. 

In return, he gets a, "Goodnight Red."

The stairs no longer creak under his weight, since they've been redone. He misses it. 

He heads for the guest room, where he keeps his clothes. Setting his chocolate milk down, he pulls his dirty clothes off. 

When he's bear of all clothing he heads into the adjoining bathroom and grabs a wet towel, wiping himself down. He's not in the mood for a shower, but he doesn't want to sleep with dried blood under his fingernails. 

After that, he exits the bathroom and digs through his dresser before he finds a pair of his red boxers. He pulls them on and grabs his chocolate milk, taking a drink. 

With glass in hand, Stiles exits the room and strides down the hallway, until he reaches the room on the end. The door's unlocked, as he knew it would be, and he heads inside. 

The carpet is soft beneath his feet, in comparison to the hard wood floor that runs through the rest of the house. The walls are painted a classic white, and there's a black dresser, and two black night stands on each side of a bed with red bedding. There's also one large, circular window, and two doors, one to the master bath and the other to a walk-in closet. 

Stiles is as familiar with this room as he is with his own at the Stilinski residence. The only difference is that this room is his safe haven, whereas his childhood room is filled with memories, both good and bad. 

Besides, this room belongs to the one person he trusts most in this world. 

Lying in the bed, on top of the covers, face up and in the dark, is Derek. He's only wearing a pair of jeans, and his chest, sculpted by the gods, is on display for all to see. His eyes are closed, but Stiles knows that he's awake. 

Stiles stands there in the doorway, staring at his lover, while sipping on his chocolate milk. 

When the glass is empty, he sets it on the dresser, and moves toward the bed, never taking his eyes off of Derek. 

Stiles climbs onto the bed and maneuvers himself so that he's leaning over him. 

He stares into Derek's face, mesmerized by how it looks in the moonlight before he gently runs a finger down his cheekbone. 

Derek doesn't even stir and Stiles sighs. He rolls over so that he's lying next to Derek on the bed and then snuggles up behind him. At that, Derek finally shifts and turns so that he can slide his arms around Stiles' waist. 

"What time is it?" Derek murmurs sleepily. 

"3 am," Stiles replies, amusement apparent in his voice. 

Derek groans and buries his head in Stiles' shoulder. 

"Yes, yes, I know, it's sleepytime," Stiles' pats Derek's head soothingly. 

Derek sleepily nods and Stiles watches as his boyfriend falls back into his dreamland. Stiles then sighs and wiggles a bit, getting comfortable. Then he closes his eyes and let's the abyss come for him. 

Stiles can't imagine life being any other way. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Go easy on me? I swore I'd never write fanfiction, so I'm sorry if some of the characters are OOC (although some are a bit OOC intentionally).  
> If you like it, comment or whatnot, and perhaps I'll be encouraged to write some other fics. I'll finish this verse, but beyond that... It's a mystery.


End file.
